A fresh start

Two days ago, He moved to East Coast City, where he'll be living for the next fiveish years while earning a bunch of letters behind his name (well, just three: PhD). (Yup, He's a smart one. *Sigh*)

I'm excited for Him--I am. Buttttt a not-so-teeny-tiny part of me resents that He gets a fresh start, and I don't. Over the next month, he'll begin to meet people who will become his friends and colleagues, and will get to know Him--just Him, not us. When they inquire about His relationship status (and they will. Did I mention He's really good lookin? *Sigh*), He'll be able to answer, "Yeah, I'm single" without having to give any sort of explanation, "and, yeah, I'm up for a drink tonight." What I have to look forward to this next month, as friends and acquaintances roll back into town from summer vacation and pose that dreaded question, "How was your summer?", is telling them--people who, when they met me and inquired about my relationship status a year earlier, got to know me as Me with long-term, now also long-distance boyfriend--that I'm now just Me...that we failed, just like so many of them had. He'll discover new restaurants and drinking establishments and running routes, while I'll continue to frequent the ones that we discovered together.

All this bothers me, as much as I wish it didn't.

But what really ignites a riot in my internal organs is this: He's getting a new cell phone number. He's not even getting a new phone (no, he's determined to have his Motorolla Razor last a decade), just a new East Coast City area code. Whyyyyyyyyyy? We're not in Canada anymore, tootsie, where you have to change your number when you move cities or else face the gods of sky-high cell phone bills. Here, in Ame'rica, the cell phone plans are more expensive for a reason: no roaming inside the country. Now you're a smart boy, Mr. future PhD, so I know I don't have to tell you that it's completely unnecessary to go through the hassle of changing your number and probably paying some stupid fee (because AT&T sux) to do it. Why not hang onto the number that I've committed to memory, even though it's at the top of my speed dial list? The number that like a ka-gillion places could reach you, my emergency contact, at when I break a rib, am found unconscious, get into a car accident?

And then the riot was set ablaze when this question popped to mind: under what name do I store His new number? Every entry that I've had for Him has been some cutesy pet name (yuck, I know). Firstname Lastname doesn't seem right. No.

Perhaps....

-The Man Who Played Scratch and Sniff With My Armpits...After I Stopped Wearing Deoderent
-The Man Who Would Get Gitty Every Time I Responded Affirmatively To The Question, "Would You Allow Me To Eat You If You Died in a Plane Crash?"
-The Man Who Dropped Anything and Everything When I Called Out "Snuggle Tiiiiimmmmmeeee!" (and for whom I dropped anything and everything when he called out "Snuuuuggggle Time!")
-The Man Who Made Me Who I Am

----------------

Update:

A couple of weeks later, a slightly wiser me had a bit more to say about this. More precisely, I had this to say.